This week in London, I went to the Le Creuset pop-up shop in Covent Garden.

This is the first pop-up that they’ve done in the UK, and it’s lasting all month—I went specifically to check out their astrology-themed mugs, but I didn’t end up liking the colour that the Aquarius one came in (bright orange), so I left it behind.

They also featured this massive disco-ball inspired Le Creuset dutch oven display, which I found super impressive.

Le Creuset has had a special part of my heart for about 10 years now. When I first landed in London, there were a lot of British-isms that were immediately apparent; driving on the other side of the street, swear words not being that shocking, no one talking on the tube. Basic things that, within a week or two, any observant assimilator would pick up on.

But over the years, there are things that became apparent that felt more covert. Like that the only way to know if a British person likes you is that they’re comfortable making fun of you. The official language of the UK isn’t English, it’s Sarcasm. That “public” and “private” schools mean the opposite of what they do in North America. And unnervingly, that even the poshest people will deny they’re posh.

One of the things that intrigued me about posh people—other than the fact that they’d swear up and down they were middle-class—was that the fancy things that they owned weren’t always new. I’ve heard the description of “Heirloom Quality” before—something that’s so high-quality, it gets passed down from generation to generation. This could be a Gucci bag, a set of silver earrings, a brass candlestick…but in the homes of my 20-something posh friends (or their country homes I got to visit), the “Heirloom Quality” items were all emblazoned with the famous “Le Creuset” emblem.

Le Creuset is aware of this, of course. The brand comes with a lifetime guarantee, and more than once I’ve heard first-hand TikTok storytimes of people who find the Dutch ovens in their parent’s attics or charity shops, realize there’s a problem with the item, and then work with the brand to fix the piece. It’s less garbage in the ocean, and befitting of a promise—buy once, and you won’t have to buy another.

I’ve become a little obsessed with Le Creuset over the years, and it’s not something that only impacts me. There’s been a Le Creuset is on every wedding registry I’ve seen; it’s the gift of choice for friends buying their first flat, or moving into an apartment for the first time. There are so, so many pieces you can find online—and just like Barbies, you can see that different decades bring their era’s aesthetic to the design.

I must admit that when it comes to my own collection, I’m a little less traditional. I love the iconography of the original Dutch oven, and I understand that part of buying into this brand in particular means opting in to a legacy that pre-dates my interest. I don’t want a knockoff, after all; I want an original. I want a Le Creuset.

So a few years ago I bought one, after much hemming and hawing and searching for sales and discount codes. And I love it, and I make cakes within it at least once a month. It’s a bit smaller than I was expecting (having bought it online), and after a month of having it, I was walking down the street with a friend and my partner, and the following scene happened:

“I want to show you the ugliest thing I’ve seen in a while,” she said, pointing to a black, Staub-brand Dutch oven in a window display. This piece was unique, though; it was shaped like a large black pumpkin with a white handle.

“Um,” I said, not sure how to find the words to stop what I knew was coming.

“Who would cook in a thing like that?” she continued. “It’s hideous! Who would even want it in their kitchen?”

“Her,” said Boyfriend, pointing at me.

Because it’s true. My first foray into Le Creuset was this bright orange, pumpkin-shaped Dutch oven:

My friend was horrified and apologized profusely. But truthfully, I took no offense. What she saw as an eyesore, I think is so cool. I don’t think Le Creuset is necessarily about conformity; you can enjoy it in your own way.

Because when I looked at my friend’s Dutch ovens, I wasn’t only seeing a fancy label and some crockery, or something that was being used out of tradition. I was seeing a practical product that denoted something about the user. I care about buying things that last. I know what quality looks like. I can cook well enough that this investment is worth it to me.

For a while in my 20s, I really wanted these things to be true about myself. I wanted to have enough money to buy quality things that wouldn’t break. I wanted to be in-the-know about what quality was, and looked like. I wanted to know how to cook nice meals, which is a skill I didn’t develop until I was well into my mid-to-late twenties.

But there was a fourth, unspoken thing I wanted to be true: I wanted to be a good host to my friends. I dreamed of having big dinner parties and birthdays and friends-givings; of knowing how to roast a turkey or chicken, and fillet a mignon.

Truthfully, I still don’t know how to do a lot of those things. Two years ago was the first Christmas that my partner and I tried to roast a chicken with trimmings and lots of sides. We did it in our Le Creuset, and I’m not sure we could have done it without some sort of bigger roasting tin.

I now have a bigger Le Creuset—white and gold, classic. Well, not classic; it’s a bigger pumpkin. I call it my Cinderella, because it looks like it could turn into a carriage with those colours. And when I went to the pop-up, I saw this little beauty:

And I’ll admit, I was tempted. I imagine a long, long table with 20 friends, where there’s so much conversation and laughter we can’t hear the playlist we put on. I imagine keeping the food warm in the Dutch ovens, my friends laughing at how the table resembles a pumpkin patch. I imagine glasses clinking and forks clattering; people asking if there’s more gravy and if everyone got enough potatoes. That’s what Le Creuset reminds me of; my dream of a house full of laughter, food, and love.

For now, I’ll have to stick to my two pumpkin-themed Le Creusets. But for anyone who might be looking for an exceptional piece of cookware to add to their collection, the pop-up can be found on Henrietta Street in Covent Garden, and will be running all month until July 3^rd. If you end up going, let me know how it went—and as always, happy travels!